Artist: Owl John
Venue: Bottom Lounge
Scott Hutchison’s Owl John show was realizing your mortality drinking the last of a flat PBR staring at the suffocated embers of an abandoned cigarette, alone as the lights come on. It was the first beer with your dad. The first real beer. It was a Wednesday during the summer between Sophomore and Junior year in college, with a job you didn’t give a shit about and friends you couldn’t care more about.
Songs served as though they were being read from 1000 year old, leather bound poetry books that had lost at sea for several decades. Genuine. Warm. Weathered. His voice sat pleasantly in the humid air that the fans ineffectively stirred. Several hilarious stories made it seem as though he had been friends with the crowd for years and bottom lounge was a favorite old haunt. Admittedly slightly drunk, his buzz seemed to be shared throughout the crowd, a fall glow as seamless as a freshly carved pumpkin. There was no set list, there didn’t need to be, the current of the crowd pushed and Scott curated.
Owl John was everyone. Favorite song of the night: